


Bend Me, Shape Me Any Way You Want Me

by IndraraSkye



Series: Emissary Stiles [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Derek Hale Knits, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fertility Rituals, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mates, Mpreg, Sherriff's name is John, Steter Week, Steter Week 2019, cum play sort of, magic sex and sex magic, minor blood play, minor internal freakout, not a/b/o
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 13:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20115985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndraraSkye/pseuds/IndraraSkye
Summary: Hot news hits cold Alaskan winters. Stiles needs to roll with some changes, and he needs his alpha's help to do it.





	Bend Me, Shape Me Any Way You Want Me

**Author's Note:**

> And this marks my last fic for Steter Week! I thought I'd round the week out by delving into a subject I have never, ever touched on in any of my other writing, because what better pairing to experiment with new things through than these two? It's mpreg, but it's also Stiles using his magic to be strong and bold and protective and leaning on Peter for support when he needs it instead of trying to get through on his own. Not beta'd, blah blah blah, so on and so forth.

His dad was coming to see him next week. 

He’d been in Alaska for six whole months, living off the land and settling into pack and discovering that his mate was actually a pretty amazing guy. Who’d have thought that Peter Hale would make a terrific alpha? Anyway, he’d been six months away from California and his dad and his friends. Sure, he talked with all of them pretty much weekly, Skyped with them most of the time, but nobody had been able to get away to come up and visit him, and Peter had absolutely no interest in brokering an alliance with the Beacon Hills Pack, so he had no reason to invite anyone up in an official capacity. He’d gone to visit them once, but it turned out that his pack bonds were still new enough that it physically ached being away from his new family for more than forty-eight hours and he had to pack up and go home much sooner than he’d planned. At least he’d gotten to lay eyes on everyone, even if he’d only gotten a couple hours of first person shooting in with Scott and a few rounds at the range in with his dad before he’d had to go. He’d even got to make Lydia all jealous with one of his personal bestiaries, so that was alright.

But now it was winter holiday season and the pack was getting busier, preparing for the long winter that had already pretty much arrived this far north, working and reworking security patrols and details around arrangements to visit families, debating two new alliance offers that had come in, helping to settle disputes within their borders, and fielding an in-pack pregnancy, all while still working their cover business, which had turned out to be a winery, of all things. He’d actually gone into shock when Peter had shown him how it all worked this far into Bumfuck, Alaska. They had greenhouses the size of football fields. They had grow lights and irrigation systems built into those greenhouses that functioned the same way the rest of the commune functioned—a combination of hydro, thermal, wind, and solar energy. They had a two story building equipped with machines to produce several varieties of wine and an entire basement filled with casks and barrels. They were doing it all with alternative energy and a satellite Internet connection. Peter said they also brought in grapes from Northern California every season. It was impressive.

The first thing Stiles did in his official role(s) was fix the Internet connection. Satellite completely sucked, and he needed his streaming capabilities. _”Why are you taking two courses in techno magic, Stiles? How is this going to help werewolves in any way, shape, or form?_ Suck it, Larry. He could bring his pack into the twenty-first century with his abilities in techno magic, which is exactly what he did: A couple spells and incantations here, an herbal mixture there, and a couple of runes chalked onto the modem, and he had them high speed in no time. They could do more online business, connect with other buyers and distributors, and actually have video conferences without buffering issues, and he could get his Final Fantasy MMO fix and keep up with _Voltron_. Techno magic for the win.

The important thing in all this, though, was that Stiles had mentioned how many outdoor activities Alaska in the winter had introduced him to, and his dad had been sold when he mentioned the ice fishing cabin the pack had up here—his dad had never been ice fishing, and he knew what a sucker the man was for fishing in general—and his dad had eagerly agreed to take time off from the station and come spend Christmas week up with him and his new pack, “just to check things out.” His dad was totally coming for fishing and free beer and because Stiles still refused to give him any pack names for him to run through police databases because Stiles may still have been a little annoyed that he’d just let Stiles head off to get fucked in the ass all by himself, but whatever. His dad was still coming up to see him, so he’d count it as the win it was, but on top of everything else, it was nerve-wracking. Peter kept kissing his forehead and telling him to stop worrying so much about things because it was bad for his health and then directing whichever random betas were in the main house with them to deep clean another room because Mom was still throwing up with anxiety.

Peter wasn’t wrong. He’d been sick every day for a month now, multiple times every day, usually, and it was hard to mediate or plan or advise or even settle in for movie nights when he was jumping up and running off to the bathroom so often. He hated his anxiety. It had him strung so tightly he was even snapping at Yvonne every time she sat down to complain about her life to him, which wasn’t cool since she was pregnant with twins, the second set of pups to ever be born to the pack. (Cora’s kid was adorable, but he’d reached that toddler age where he was grabby and pokey and liked to fling himself off tall objects and Stiles could really use a new tiny ball of fluff to focus his energies on.) Anxiety had always fucked with his sleep patterns, and this time around was no different. He felt like he was sleeping something ridiculous like fourteen hours a day, but he could not catch up to well rested. The dark circles under his eyes were now constant companions. And he was always cold. He suspected it was from the lack of sleep. Last week, Derek had knitted him a blanket out of some heavy wool he’d had and suggested Stiles maybe see a doctor, but then they’d gotten a storm full of particularly heavy snow and Stiles did not feel like going out in that. He could—the pack had the must luxuriant, ultimate snowmobiles he’d ever seen before, some of them with a back-passenger bucket seat sort of rig up that he could bundle down into with blankets and heavy coats and stay warm on the back of. Peter had taken him out on one when they’d had to head into town and fetch the local vet after a couple heavy snowfalls because five of Derek’s six angora rabbits had all come down with something at the same time. He and Derek were heading into town, and he’d invited Stiles along so he could see that getting around up here in the winter wasn’t really that difficult. Derek had taken one of the single riders, and he got to snuggle in against Peter and enjoy the ride. It had been a lot of fun. He’d always loved dirt biking and riding around on ATVs, so he’d expected the snowmobiles to be just as great, and he’d been right. Nobody would let him drive one yet, though. Something about him being danger prone and their favorite human and the snowmobiles being expensive. He just rolled with it. He was going to wait till Christmas morning, as a sort of Christmas present to himself, to announce to the pack that if he didn’t know how to run the snowmobiles and he had to get to town for some sort of emergency, he was just going to have to leash the dogs up to the sleds in their “garage” and wolf-sled his way to wherever he needed to be. 

He already knew that Horace would cave at the announcement and show him how to ride whether Peter and Derek wanted him to or not. It was one of the many reasons that Horace was his third favorite.

So, he could go to town and see a doc, but he didn’t really WANT to. The cold in Alaska was COLD, and it was supposed to snow again soon, and he could just hunker down with his new favorite blanket and his favorite wolf-shaped blast furnace when his mate was available for such needs (which was pretty often—Peter was an absolutely fantastic mate and Stiles wasn’t spoiled at all, thank you) and binge watch bad TV on Netflix until his nerves calmed down enough for him to get over whatever he was under. 

He directed things and shivered his way through mediation meetings and pushed his wolves to make Christmas in the main house, complete with a gigantic tree and all sorts of craft-made ornaments (which included blown glass bulbs and shapes and hand painted ceramic shapes and even wood burning and hand carved ornaments, because his wolves were immensely talented), lights and tinsel and garlands and pine boughs throughout the house, and plastic mistletoe, because he liked his wolves and thinking about Cora so close to death all those years ago still made him cry. Everything seemed to make him cry lately. Peter’s stupid Hallmark Christmas movies made him cry. The oversize mittens Derek had made for him made him cry. Cora’s husband burning some peanut butter in a pan made him cry. Cora’s fucking kid eating the last goddamn peanut butter cup because he was a tiny little monster who needed to be stopped made him cry. Fucking SEX made him cry all of a sudden, and hadn’t that just been a fun discovery. Whatever. Peter held him close all night and told him how wonderful he was, so it worked out.

He was just a fucking mess, okay? But he managed to get everything ready for his dad’s visit. He got the wolves settled, he got the house cleaned and decorated, he’d aired out the sheets in their bedroom and spent an entire afternoon on his hands and knees looking for the source of the curdled milk smell before finally finding a couple drops of dried milk staining the carpet under his nightstand and gotten that cleaned up. He’d sent Derek into town with an extended grocery list. He mixed up a double batch of his peppermint tea blend. He cried when he found the protection rune he’d placed under the mat by the kitchen door on his arrival ebbing in its power. He cried over that for two fucking hours. Horace had found him curled into an upright fetal position against the cabinet by the kitchen door and sobbing so hard he couldn’t tell the wolf what was wrong. Horace made a call on his cell, and Peter was next to him in five minutes flat. His alpha spent the rest of the afternoon making him feel better by cuddling him on the couch and praising his magical ability, telling him how much he helped the pack and how much happier everyone has been since he’d joined them. His Pete was surprisingly good at the praise and the verbal fixing of the things that were wrong.

Peter and Derek went personally to pick Stiles’s dad up from the Fairbanks airport. Stiles begged off from going, citing the shivers and a general need to not move from the couch. Peter kissed his cheek. Derek checked his forehead. They both frowned at him and then each other before he shooed them away and told them to hurry back with his dad. His stomach was cramping on top of the nausea. It wasn’t overly pleasant.

The wolves did hurry back with his father. They’d also hurried back with the town doctor, though, and Stiles kind of wanted to kick them. He had a bug of some sort, and it was getting far worse, which meant it was about to get a lot better. That was how being sick worked. Every human being on earth knew that, but could he surround himself with human beings? Of course not. He had to surround himself with overprotective, possessive wolves who were getting pissy that their Stiles was still sick and slightly alarmed at his increased consumption of meat cooked rare. He didn’t get it. His body probably needed more iron to stave off the illness, and red meat was full of iron. The less it was cooked, the more iron it had. It wasn’t all that strange a concept.

They were lucky he liked the doc. She was in the know about the supernatural, which was kind of important in these parts. Land and even some sea fae called these parts home, along with his wolves, two small nests of vamps, a contingent of witches, and a ley line wizard. The woods in their boundaries boasted a small herd of centaurs and a mated pair of unicorns in addition to single or small family-unit shifters of all sorts. More and more supernaturals came out here every month. When Stiles had asked a few of them about the tiny migration into these parts, they’d told him about the wolf pack in this area who’d been open and accepting of others in their territory, who allowed them autonomy in exchange for their respect of some basic rules of decency and kindness. He totally preened at this. That was HIS pack. The alpha everyone respected was HIS mate. HE’D helped setting up those guidelines. They’d created a safe space up here. Doc catered to that safe space. She consulted with the town vet in matters dealing with the more sentient forest dwellers and offered her services to the humanoid species of the area on a barter system. She made house calls to the pack house to keep up with Cora’s toddlers and Yvonne’s pregnancy and any medical emergencies or strange illnesses that Stiles couldn’t fix with his emissary knowledge, and she usually did all that in exchange for some of the tea blends Stiles makes all the time, anyway. She was the good sort of people.

His dad hugged him tight when they all got back in, told him he looked like shit, and pretty much frog-marched him over to the doc, depositing him on a kitchen chair and then saying he’d be unpacking in his room if Stiles needed anything. He could hear Peter on the other side of the door shooing the betas away, trying to give Stiles some modicum of privacy. His husband was best hubby ever. It brought tears to his eyes. 

Fuck, his eyes were actually tearing up.

He waved a hand and activated the “no werewolf supersenses allowed” wards he’d placed around the kitchen for his own privacy and occasional sanity a month into his tenure and told Doc she hadn’t had to come. She suggested he run down a list of symptoms and let her check him over, which he sniffled a bit and agreed to do as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

She listened to his heart. She listened to his lungs. She checked his reflexes. She felt around his throat and looked in his mouth, nose, and ears. She pressed on his torso. She shined a light into his eyes. She listened to his list of symptoms. She told him he was probably pregnant. He laughed at her joke. She pulled a box out of her bag and told him to go pee on that stick. 

The box held an over the counter pregnancy test. He arched an eyebrow at it, then raised that look to her. He’d done a general fertility ritual for the pack about four months ago, but that was for general fertility and prosperity. He’d kept it general. He was pretty damn good with the sex magic, okay? He knew what he was doing. He hadn’t attuned to it or narrowed the focus or anything he’d need to do to successfully get pregnant. He’d already used his sex magic for a number of things, and hadn’t gotten pregnant from any of it. He knew how to get himself pregnant, and there had been none of that done in any way, shape, or form. Okay, sure, he had a very healthy sex life. He was young and horny and Peter was creative and very good with his tongue. In the past six months, there’d been a lot of cock and a lot of ass. It happened. He was a newlywed. But he still hadn’t done any prep work or ritual work to allow his body to successfully carry a baby.

She told him to go pee on the stick. He went and peed on the stick, glaring at any wolf who dared look his direction when he stormed back. He set the timer on his phone and then scrolled through reddit for the next three minutes. There was absolutely no way he was pregnant. He was anxious and probably had a flu or something. 

He glanced down at the counter after about a minute because he was anxious and bored with reddit already. Two bold, thick pink lines stretched over the result window. He checked the timer on his phone. A minute and ten seconds had passed since he’d peed on it. If lines that solid had already shown up in that short amount of time, it was probably a defective test, right? 

He peed on a second stick from the box. Waited another minute. Gawked at the second set of lines. Called Doc and asked if she had another pee test brand in her magic brand of sticks. Listened to her snort and chuckle for a few seconds. He very calmly explained all the reasons he couldn’t possibly be pregnant. She told him to stop being ridiculous and bring the sticks back to the kitchen with him.

He shoved the pee sticks back into the box and then stormed back into the kitchen, scowling at all the wolves in general on his way back through. He shoved the box at Doc, and she looked at the used ones and told him that the thickness of the lines left very little to interpretation. He scowled at Doc. She pulled out a syringe and a couple blood collection tubes with different colored caps on them and took his blood, telling him she’d send them off to the city to get a good read on all his chemistry levels, but that he should probably get in touch with the local coven and see if he could make use of their midwife. He deactivated his “fuck your enhanced senses” wards and bellowed for Peter to get his ass into the kitchen. 

Peter was even quicker to appear than those stupid test lines. Stiles took one look at the bewildered look on his mate’s face and burst into tears. Pete wrapped him up in his arms and the doc gave him a cup of his own peppermint tea and told him to research anti-nausea charms and herbs. She instructed Peter to reach out to the local coven and contract their midwife’s services as she handed him the box of pregnancy tests, then she called for Derek to take her back to town and left.

Stiles couldn’t stop crying. They were still building the pack up, stabilizing territory and creating ties and making everything more firmly grounded. They hadn’t even talked about children of their own. He wasn’t ready to have children of his own. What if Pete didn’t want kids just yet? He hadn’t even done anything magically to make this happen! He shouldn’t be pregnant! Would Pete think he pulled some secretive bullshit and made this happen? HOW did this happen?! He hadn’t…Fuck. He hadn’t done anything to prepare for this. He had done NOTHING to prepare for this, and now there was a little ball of dependency inside him that he hadn’t instructed his body to care for. He hadn’t rerouted anything or reconfigured anything or built up any magical balls of “this shit should be here right now, don’t freak out and attack” inside himself. He was going to kill this fucking child before it even had a chance to grow! He was going to accidentally end a little life because he tended to fuck things up and he WASN’T ready for this, and then Pete would hate him for killing their child, and Pete should hate him for that! He’d be a murderer for real. He’d hate himself. He couldn’t…

He wailed and shook in his mate’s arms. It was gross, and after another few minutes it made his face hurt, but he deserved it. He deserved to hurt because he was killing the future of the entire pack. 

Peter shushed him and kissed the top of his head, then asked why the doctor had handed him a box of pregnancy tests and told him to call the midwife.

He sniffled a bit and told Peter it was because he was a murderer. He could feel Pete’s chuckle rumble through his chest.

“I seriously doubt that, Stiles. Murderers don’t usually take pregnancy tests.”

Ugh.

“Apparently I’m pregnant, asshole.”

Peter’s arms tightened around him. He could feel Pete’s chest stutter a bit against the side of his face. Then Peter let go of him and tilted Stiles’s chin up so he was looking him in the eye. 

He’d never seen the alpha look so happy. Pete’s eyes practically sparkled; the laugh lines crinkled tightly at their corners. Pete was grinning wide enough that both those dimple creases at the bottom of his cheeks came out to play. “We’re having a baby?”

He snorted wetly, his own smile forcing its way onto his snotty, weepy face. “That’s what the pee sticks say. Doc seems to agree.”

Peter kissed him. It was a closed-mouth kiss, but it was definitely enthusiastic. He could feel the joy radiating off his mate, his alpha’s ecstasy ringing through the pack bond. He kissed Pete back. Peter pulled him up and hugged him close, one hand stroking through his hair and that goatee rasping against his cheek and jaw as his mate scent marked him. He heard Pete whisper, “We’re having a baby.”

Before he could tell Pete about his physical concerns, the rest of the pack rushed into the kitchen, followed closely by his dad. The betas were all talking at once, asking questions and forming theories and making sure Stiles was alright. Derek ran into the kitchen behind everybody, Doc sauntering in a bit more slowly. Apparently they hadn’t left yet.

Peter stared at the bunch of his betas, raising both eyebrows and waiting until they quieted. Stiles didn’t want to wait. Pete was happy. Pete was more than happy—he was overjoyed, and that filled Stiles with a giddy feeling not unlike when he drank his Coke down too fast and bubbles filled his chest until he finally belched them out. He bounced a bit back and forth on the balls of his feet. 

Everyone quieted down. Pete said, “Stiles is fine,” at the same time Stiles announced, “We’re gonna have a baby!” and that started the ruckus up again. Whoops and hollers filled the kitchen and everyone surged forward to try to hug him at once. Derek murderbrowed his way through the crowd of betas, pushing his way past them and wrapping his arms around Stiles and Peter. He kissed the side of Stiles’s head and smacked Peter’s back, proclaiming that he was going to be as good an uncle as Peter had been for him.

Pete spluttered, and Stiles informed Derek that this was why Derek would always be his second favorite, and then he told Derek to use his murderbrows to get Stiles’s dad to the front of the line. As Derek went to do that, Stiles quietly whispered that he would keep Derek in line, so there was nothing Pete had to worry about. He knew the kind of uncle Pete had been to Derek. He had been Derek’s favorite uncle back in the day for a reason.

Suddenly his dad was standing in front of him, trying to hold his “I’m the Sheriff” pose of authority. “Pregnant, son? Really?” 

It would have been more effective if the man kept himself from smiling like a loon. Stiles let go of his husband long enough to present jazz hands at his dad while he proclaimed, “Magic!” His dad laughed and then asked who the hell was going to take him ice fishing the next day. Derek ended up promising John that he would after Peter declared that Stiles would not be spending his day on ice in Alaska in the middle of winter while pregnant with his pup. He even got all alpha about it. It was surprisingly sexy.

And that was that. Stiles was pregnant. He had a living dependent inside of him, one that was part him and part Peter Hale. He was allowed to cry when they ran out of peanut butter, and he could ask Derek to knit him sweaters when he grew out of his own clothes. He definitely wasn’t going to con Horace into teaching him how to drive a snowmobile, though, and he was going to have to start figuring out now how to convince Peter to let him help with pack business as time went on. He was still the pack emissary, after all. 

The whole pack celebrated the news of their alpha’s impending child for the rest of the evening. They had wine and beer and sparkling cider. Peter stayed by his side the entire evening, an arm around him or a hand on his stomach. His dad got more and more comfortable as the night went on, talking sports and politics and law enforcement with the betas and Peter. Cora’s husband made burgers for dinner. Stiles’s burgers were practically still bloody. He ate three.

At the end of the night, Peter took his hand and led him through the house, up to their private rooms on the third floor. This time, Stiles shut the door behind them, then pulled his mate in for a hug and a chaste kiss. Peter whispered how much he loved him when Stiles pulled away enough to look at him, and Stiles beamed at him. “Let’s go sit on the couch. We need to talk about things. Oh, and light the fire, please. I’m cold.”

At least now he knew why he was so cold.

Peter got the fire going in the fireplace and joined him, grabbing the blanket Derek had made Stiles his first week with them off the back of the couch and covering them both up. Peter pulled him in so Stiles was straddling his lap. Stiles swore he could actually see the love and contentment in his husband’s eyes. He grabbed Peter’s hands.

“I don’t know how that happened, Pete—”

Peter scoffed. “Well, Stiles, when a boy alpha loves a boy very, very much, the boy alpha—”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Shut up, douchenozzle. I MEAN I didn’t do anything to prepare for it. I know that you think that the fact that you’re alpha means that your magic supersperm can knock any living being up, but I am here to tell you that’s just not true. Alpha mates, it turns out, are taught some very specific magic to allow their alphas to breed them, regardless of gender. Even non-registered alpha mates are pulled aside after their matings and taught the words and herbs necessary to carry their alpha’s pups. I’ve been doing research on this subject, you know. Believe me when I say that while your sperm is tasty and plentiful, it is not inherently magical enough to change my plumbing.”

Peter rolled his eyes. Stiles plowed on. “I haven’t performed the rituals. I haven’t been taking the herbs. I haven’t cast the spells or created the charms, and I’m WORRIED, Petey. This baby is a tiny little miracle, and I have not prepared my body to accept it, let alone nurture it. What if I lose it before we can even have it?”

Peter sighed and lifted one of his hands from Stiles’s to cup his cheek. “We won’t lose it, Stiles. You’re a stubborn ass. You won’t let that happen.”

“Still—”

“Tell me what we have to do to make you feel safe in carrying our pup, sweetheart.”

There was a lot they had to do. Most of it was going to involve a shit ton of sex and a little bit of bleeding on him, because sex and blood magic were his strongest concentrations. Really, he had no idea what Larry had been thinking letting him focus so much on those things when the man knew he was going to insist on working with werewolves. He liked Larry, but he’d been kind of a shitty advisor. 

Stiles shrugged himself out of his shirt. “Cut your palm. Rest it on the lower part of my torso, where the baby probably is. Ignore my chanting. Be prepared for the fact that it won’t heal until you remove it.”

Peter cut one palm with a claw and did as he was told. Stiles chanted to the blood in Old Gaelic, drawing it out and into him, through his skin. He chanted it to mix with his own, to swirl around their child and wrap it in warmth and strength and love. He removed Peter’s hand. The blood on his abdomen remained, forming the shape of Peter’s handprint.

Stiles held out the palm of one hand. “Now do me.”

Peter cut a shallow gash into his palm, and Stiles placed his hand against his abdomen, over Peter’s print. He chanted to the blood in Ancient Greek this time, calling it to circle back into him and wrap around the baby he carried, to bubble the child safely within and wash it with joy and protection and love. He took his hand off his own abdomen. His blood reformed into the shape of his handprint, covering his mate’s print. Something brushed gently against the wall of his lower abdominals inside him, and he sighed out a breath of relief. 

The child was fine, and now it was wrapped his own version of a placenta instead of floating freely. It was attached to him, at least.

“This is gonna sound gross, Petey, but I need bits of you inside my system to make this work properly. I’m really sorry to have to do things this way, but I’m gonna need to suck a bit of your blood and then you’re gonna have to come down my throat.”

Peter raised one eyebrow and positively leered at him. “Exactly which part of that are you actually sorry about, Stiles? Because I can’t think of a single thing about that thought that’s gross.”

Stiles huffed. Sometimes he actually forgot his mate was ever a sociopath with a violent streak and a list of kinks a mile long. “Then shut up and cut yourself, Alpha Mine. Let me suck on you, and then let me suck on you.”

Peter cut a deep, short gash along the base of one side of his neck. Stiles leaned in and latched his lips on the skin around it, sucking in deeply and licking at the wound between his teeth. Peter gasped a bit and wrapped his arms tightly around Stiles, pulling him in closer. Peter’s blood spilled across his tongue, soaking into the flesh there and trickling down his throat. He groaned and pushed them down, Peter underneath him and their already hard cocks sliding against each other through cotton and denim. He licked and he sucked and he lapped, grinding down against skin lightly with his teeth, moaning and fighting with the fly on Peter’s jeans with his hands. 

He bit down on the skin surrounding the wound, sucking in one last gust of blood as he pulled Peter’s cock out and jerked it once, twice. He let go of his lover’s neck and demanded a fierce kiss, teeth clacking and tongues clashing as lips scraped against lips and hot, moist breath misted across skin. Then he hauled himself down his mate’s body and swallowed his favorite cock down to the root. Peter was already hard, so stiff and full that Stiles almost choked on him. He hollowed out his cheeks and flattened his tongue, sucking his way up to that sensitive head and then swirling his tongue around the seam and licking his way back down. That cock in his mouth twitched and bobbed and smacked against the back of his throat and scraped against the inside of his cheek. He focused his energy and his magic, breathing it out against the cock he licked and the balls he fondled. This was his alpha. This was his mate. This was the masculine and the yin and the protection and the strength. This was his husband. This was the salt and the sweat and one half of the whole inside him. This was the earth and the sun. 

He slurped and he sucked and he licked and he jerked with skin and with tongue. Peter came on a grunt, spilling into his mouth and down his throat as he hummed his mate through the orgasm. He swallowed every drop of cum down, licking his husband clean and then kissing him like he knew Peter liked until his alpha’s breathing returned to normal. 

Peter opened his eyes, and Stiles had never seen him look so _sated_ before. They’d had rough and vigorous sex. They’d had slow and lazy sex. Stiles had sucked him off with urgency before, but Peter had always just looked satisfied and content after. Stiles was normally the one feeling completely sated. It was a really, really good look on his husband.

Peter grinned at him. “That was intense.”

Stiles chuckled. “But wait, there’s more.”

Peter ran a hand along his spine. “Baby, you’re gonna have to give me a minute or two after that. I’m pretty sure you actually sucked most of my brain out through my dick.”

That was a sweet compliment. Stiles was well aware that he’s gotten more than proficient at giving head, and he knew that Peter knew how much he loved doing it, but Peter was an alpha wolf. It took a lot to reduce alpha wolves to that level. Stiles smiled proudly. “That’s okay. You just have to suck me off and actually pay attention to not swallowing when I come in your mouth.”

Peter shot him a skeptical look. “And why can’t I swallow? You know how much I like the taste of you as your cum travels down my throat.”

His alpha was fucking filthy, because he knew every word of that statement was actually true. 

“You’re not allowed to swallow because you have to feed my cum back to me. I don’t care how you choose to do it: You can pour it back down my throat or you blow it up my ass, but you have to feed it back to me to complete this portion of the ritual.”

Peter arched an eyebrow and ran a finger up and down the back seam of his jeans. “And exactly what ritual is this, Mate? Are you making these rules up as you go to see how hard you can get me so quickly after I just came?”

A laugh bubbled up his throat and shot out of his mouth. It tasted like spunk and like Peter. 

“This is an actual ritual, Alpha Mine. It’s further on the sex magic spectrum than alpha mates are normally taught. It’s a yin/yang type ritual, a mixing and merging of our energies inside me that should bind us to the baby and allow the baby to physically attach to me the way a child would attach to a female reproductive system.”

He liked the idea of having both of them mixing together in his system, working their way together (like they always did) to the child growing inside him and feeding and nurturing it. 

Peter hummed. “Then strip and get on the bed, husband. Will the next part of the ritual involve me fucking you, I wonder?”

Stiles stood up and walked over to their bed, stripping the rest of his clothes off as he went. “As a matter of fact, the next ritual itself involves you fucking me.” He glanced over his shoulder at Peter, watching the man efficiently stripping his own clothes off. 

“More specifically, it involves me riding the hell out of you and chanting while you rub at my taint with a finger or two.”

He jumped on the bed and then rolled over, wiggling himself up the mattress and situating himself against their pillows. He really loved how much Peter loved his creature comforts.

Peter crawled up the bed and nosed his way up one side of the V of Stiles’s groin, inhaling deeply through his nose against the pubes just above his dick. 

“Then I am definitely feeding your cum back up your ass. Then I’m going to use it to slick the way as you slide down onto my cock.”

Stiles giggled. He also really loved his husband’s dirty talk. “Cum makes for terrible lube. I know you know that. You discovered that the hard way when you let me fuck you that way a couple months ago.”

His alpha licked a stripe up his cock. “Mmmmm, but I just about exploded with the feel of it, though. I keep telling you how much I know you’ll love it, baby. Now you’ll get to find out how right I am. Since the magic is already going to be strong, it’ll be easy to heal yourself this time. Let me show you.”

Peter swallowed down the length of his dick slowly, dragging his top teeth very gently as he moved further down. Stiles groaned out his assent, and then Peter really got to work. His alpha gave head like it was a full-time job and he needed the fucking paycheck. He gave head the way Michael Jordan played basketball, the way Shakespeare crafted words. Stiles built his magic with every swipe, allowing it to hum under his skin and meet Peter’s touch. Peter raised two fingers to his mouth, and he took them in and sucked on them, licking wetly and sloppily at them while Peter hummed against his cock. One of those wet, sloppy fingers breached him on a suck up, and he let himself get lost to sensations and pressures while his mate opened him up and got him off. When Pete had gotten three fingers deep in him, he gritted out a strangled warning before coming into that hot, velvet mouth. Peter caught all of it, then flipped him over and positioned him on his knees, back slanted down and ass in the air. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the pillow, his magic thrumming along his skin and swirling around the baby.

He felt Peter’s hands open him up, then hot breath above his hole. Peter’s tongue, hot and wet and sopping and filthy, flitted against and into his ass. Fingers hooked in and pulled him open. Warm liquid burst slowly into him.

He was alpha mate. He was emissary. He was yang and softness and emotion and love. He was husband. He was salt and sweat and one half of the whole inside him. He was the sky and the moon. 

He cried out as the magic snapped into place, physically smacking into a place just below his belly button. A physical cord wrenched itself down from his belly button. He could feel it breach the bubble keeping his child safe and nestled against him. The attachment was complete. His body was tuned to the child, a tiny stone inside him, fed by his blood and physically connected to him.

He sank down into the mattress below him, breathing heavily with relief and conviction that he could now provide for their child until his mate could hold it in his arms and give it name and identity.

The mattress sank down next to him, and Peter hauled him up and on top of him.

“How you doing, little mate?” Peter ran a hand down his chest and rested it on Stiles’s hip. “You need help mounting me, or you got it?”

The magic wasn’t done yet. He sat up a little straighter, rested more weight on his knees. “Help me, please. I can ride you, but I need help getting on, I think.”

Peter smiled softly and brought one hand back up to his heart, resting it there. Stiles closed his eyes. Peter was offering some of his strength, some of his stamina and focus. Stiles could feel it knocking against his chest through his husband’s palm. He breathed in and accepted the help his alpha offered him with no strings attached. That strength and stamina flowed into him, and with it a love that Stiles had never actually felt before, so strong and bright that it brought tears to his eyes. 

Well, it was either that love or pregnancy hormones. He couldn’t be exactly sure which it was, but he definitely teared up a little bit.

Peter lifted him slightly and he adjusted his stance until he could the tip of that cock he knew like his own rubbing against his open hole. Peter lowered him slowly until he bottomed out completely.

Stiles rested his palms against his lover’s chest. “Don’t forget to rub my taint the whole time, Petey. It sounds weird, but it’s important.”

Pete nodded, and rested two fingers just under his balls. “Go ahead.”

He went ahead. His body went on autopilot, the rough scrape and slide inside of him and the insistent slide and prod of those fingers raising him higher and higher. This was his mate. This was his alpha. He could almost feel the testosterone inside him as that cocked grabbed and shoved at his ass, could feel the musk on the tip of his tongue. He was made to take this. He was his alpha’s mate. His body was made for this one man, to carry him inside, to form and shape and birth his children. His body was made to birth his children. His body was designed to take him, his body could be redesigned to give him what he needed. His body could be reshaped. 

He rocked and slid higher and farther, pushing those two fingers deeper against him with every thrust.

He chanted in Russian. He cried out in Spanish. He gave his body completely to his mate, to his bond, to his children. He demanded it shift to accommodate the child inside of him, the children that would follow. He was mate. 

He came with the force of the magic, an orgasm he didn’t even know he had in him punched out, spilling himself across Peter’s chest in hot spurts. 

_Now, now!_

Peter’s fingers slipped inside him, into a hole he’d never had and would now have for the rest of his life. Peter shoved his two fingers into that hole and shot his orgasm into him, again mixing their essence together inside Stiles’s body. Stiles relaxed and let his alpha hold him up. The magic was done. The rituals were complete. Their child was safe and could be nurtured and delivered safely to its father’s arms when it was ready.

Peter lifted him up and off, laying him gently on the bed and then moving to clean them both up. Stiles snuggled into the mattress and allowed himself to get comfortable. When his mate was a smooth, solid line at his back and those big arms held him close, he allowed himself to fall into the first deep sleep he’d had in a month.

**Author's Note:**

> There are probably many, many other stories to be told in this world. I may tell a few of them. Right now, though, I'm going to go collapse on my bed and stare at my ceiling for a few days as I come down from my writing high.


End file.
